“I hear, priest.”

The abbot exclaims, raising his arms: 

“O Lord!  Why have you made a heart that can have pity on both the murdered and the murderer!  Gart, go home.  Take him home, Mariet, and wash his hands!”

“To whom do you lie, priest?” asks Haggart, slowly.  “To God or to the devil?  To yourself or to the people?  Or to everybody?”

He laughs bitterly.

“Eh, Gart!  You are drunk with blood.”

“And with what are you drunk?”

They face each other.  Mariet cries angrily, placing herself between them: 

“May a thunder strike you down, both of you, that’s what I am praying to God.  May a thunder strike you down!  What are you doing with my heart?  You are tearing it with your teeth like greedy dogs.  You didn’t drink enough blood, Gart, drink mine, then!  You will never have enough, Gart, isn’t that true?”

“Now, now,” says the abbot, calming them.  “Take him home, Mariet.  Go home, Gart, and sleep more.”

Mariet comes forward, goes to the door and pauses there.

“Gart!  I am going to little Noni.”

“Go.”

“Are you coming along with me?”

“Yes—­no—­later.”

“I am going to little Noni.  What shall I tell him about his father when he wakes up?”

Haggart is silent.  Khorre comes back and stops irresolutely at the threshold.  Mariet casts at him a glance full of contempt and then goes out.  Silence.

“Khorre!”

“Yes.”

“Gin!”

“Here it is, Noni.  Drink it, my boy, but not all at once, not all at once, Noni.”

Haggart drinks; he examines the room with a smile.

“Nobody.  Did you see him, Khorre?  He is there, behind the curtain.  Just think of it, sailor—­here we are again with him alone.”

“Go home, Noni!”

“Right away.  Give me some gin.”

He drinks.

“And they?  They have gone?”

“They ran, Noni.  Go home, my boy!  They ran off like goats.  I was laughing so much, Noni.”

Both laugh.

“Take down that toy, Khorre.  Yes, yes, a little ship.  He made it, Khorre.”

They examine the toy.

“Look how skilfully the jib was made, Khorre.  Good boy, Philipp!  But the halyards are bad, look.  No, Philipp!  You never saw how real ships are fitted out—­real ships which rove over the ocean, tearing its grey waves.  Was it with this toy that you wanted to quench your little thirst—­fool?”

He throws down the little ship and rises: 

“Khorre!  Boatswain!”

“Yes.”

“Call them!  I assume command again, Khorre!”

The sailor turns pale and shouts enthusiastically: 

“Noni!  Captain!  My knees are trembling.  I will not be able to reach them and I will fall on the way.”

“You will reach them!  We must also take our money away from these people—­what do you think, Khorre?  We have played a little, and now it is enough—­what do you think, Khorre?”